When Every Option Sucks
by MaddieMooreland
Summary: Sam and Dean are injured in a werewolf hunt. With no cell service and no way to get a hospital, they have to make do. Sam has had a lot of practice stitching up his brother, but he'd never had to do it with a concussion before. hurt!Sam hurt!Dean
1. Chapter 1

**The boys are not mine. At least one more chapter coming. **

* * *

Sam had woken up with a headache. Not a migraine or a hangover, but one of those pinches in your brain you become aware of before you had even opened your eyes, before you've separated out the nightmares from your grim reality. The kind of headache that makes you lose a step and lingers all day, maybe two, till the barometer crawls back up, or you hydrate enough, or you get a freaking grip on your stress and anxiety and push it back down as deep as you can.

_I should really drink more water,_ Sam thought, as he watched the werewolf's claws slice through the air. He jerked to the right—the claws sliced into his arm, not his chest—but he couldn't regain his center of balance quite quickly enough. _Friggin' headache._ The werewolf slashed again, and this time Sam fell, avoiding the claws entirely, but managing to strike his head hard against the rock that was waiting for him.

Satisfied this one was down for the count, the werewolf slunk into the barn.

* * *

Dean hadn't noticed yet how wet and warm his back was, slick with the blood seeping into his shirt, his flannel, the lining of his jacket. He didn't yet feel the ripped flesh, the screaming nerves. But he could hear and see with perfect clarity and that was all he needed to finally get off the shot to sink the silver bullet right into the werewolf's chest and finish the game of cat and mouse he and Sam had been losing for the last three nights.

_Sam._ Where had he last seen Sam? They'd been running all over this abandoned farm for at least twenty minutes. _Or two?_ Dean suddenly wasn't sure.

"Sam!?"

Nothing. _What had happened to Sam?_

Dean shouted his brother's name again. Silence. A familiar panic started to claw at Dean's brain, but he pushed it aside._ Don't feel anything that isn't useful. _His Dad's voice. It was always his Dad's voice in his head at times like this.

_Phone._ He could call Sam, listen for the ring. Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, grateful it hadn't smashed when the werewolf had jumped him. Dean was halfway through dialing Sam's number before he realized he didn't have any service. He swore. The barn tilted. Or the world tilted? And his back—_NO._

_Get a grip. Find Sammy_. Dean reined himself back in. Dean was excellent at reining himself in.

Dean had gone in the barn, so Sam had gone around. To prevent a surprise attack. The surprise attack that had happened. So Sam must be— Dean bolted out of the barn, ignoring the screams of the ripped flesh brushing against his clothing.

Sam was unconscious, on the ground near the west side of the building and bleeding from a nasty gash in his left arm. Which was good, Dean reminded himself. _Dead men don't bleed._

Dean squatted next to his brother, and gritted his teeth at the white hot flash of pain that caused. _Sam first. Sam always first._

"Hey Sammy, I'm here. I'm here." Dean started running his hands over his brother, checking for injuries. His arm wasn't too bad. Sam stirred. "Hey kid, you with me?" Nothing felt broken.

Sam blinked, eyes not quite focused.

"There you are." _Thank god_. "You okay man?" Which was a stupid question.

"Youok? Immm okay," Sam slurred, before turning and puking into the dirt beside him. _Concussion then. And bleeding. Not insurmountable._ Sam slumped against the barn. "Wherre we?"

The middle of freaking nowhere, with no cell service. Dean thought.

"Wha'? Werre we?" Sam blinked at him. So Dean had said it out loud.

_Control. Get control._

Dean tried not to notice the blood running down is back.

"Hunt went sideways. It's okay." It wasn't okay. Neither of them were really okay.

_Breathe. Take stock._ Jesus. He felt like he had been flayed. Maybe he had been.

Dean couldn't call an ambulance and the nearest hospital was at least thirty minutes away. Too long for Dean to both drive and bleed. He was getting dizzy.

"Any chance you can drive, Sammy?" Sam blinked. If Dean was asking Sam to drive, something was wrong. Dean looked pale. _Why did Dean look pale?_ Sam tried to clear his head. What had Dean asked? _Can you drive_. Sam never got the chance to drive. Sam loved to drive!

"Imacan drive." Sam pushed himself off the ground, too fast, and everything swirled. He leaned heavily against the barn, and saliva pooled in his mouth. "Pukefirstmaybe."

_So no_. Sam could not drive.

As usual, every option sucked.

"Sam?" Sam looked up at Dean, trying to concentrate on his words.

This was not going to be pretty.

"I need you to get the first aid kit from the car. And a sleeping bag. And the whiskey. Okay?"


	2. Chapter 2

**One or two more chapters TK.**

* * *

If you were sick, Dean was the one you wanted to take care of you. He might tease you a little bit, but he instinctively knew how to make you feel better. Cold, flu, migraine? Dean was the one you wanted. Sam had preferred Dean's nursing to Dad's from the moment he could make the distinction.

But battle wounds? That was all Sam. Dean was fine, but Sam was an excellent field surgeon. Resetting shoulders, digging out bullets, stitches—that was Sam's wheelhouse. Sometimes, if it was something minor that he could reach, Sam even chose to stitch himself back up instead of having Dean do it. Not that Dean was bad-he wasn't-but Sam was just that much better.

So Sam had had a lot of practice at stitches. But he'd never done them while quite so nauseous and foggy and tired. He'd never done them when he couldn't quite focus.

* * *

Sam returned, hands full of things he couldn't exactly remember getting, or why, to find Dean's flannel shirt and coat in the dirt, and Dean struggling with his tshirt. _Why was Dean taking off his shirt?_ Still, he needed help and that is what they did, help each other. Sam should help.

"Lemme." Sam's reached for Dean's shirt with the wrong arm—he'd been vaguely aware that his left arm hurt, but the ache in his head had been obscuring it. Now, he realized it was bleeding. He put what he had been carrying down, freeing his right hand to help. _When had he cut his arm?_

Dean's shirt was wet. Something dark staining it. Dean was also bleeding. _Shit._

"Can you just cut it off?" Dean's voice caught a bit, an edge of pain leaking out. _Cut it. Of course_. That is what Sam would have suggested if his brain wasn't quite so scrambled.

Sam searched for the scissors in the pack, swallowing back the nausea that accompanied the change of altitude.

Sam found the scissors, and slowly stood back up. _Focus._ Dean was leaning heavily, head in his arms, faced towards the barn. His shirt was stiff, wet, but torn flesh peaked through. _Cut it off._

Sam thought through his next sentence carefully, struggling to make the words stop sliding around in his mouth. "Ima going to now." _See? Better._

Dean's t-shirt was stiff, sticky. Sam pulled it away from where it was clinging to his brother's skin, as Dean hissed through his teeth, and spat on the ground. Sam was horrified at the mess under his brother's shirt. Four deep gashes. _Or two?_ Why won't his eyes focus? Sam closed his eyes—god he wants to be asleep- and took a slow, deep breath. Opened them. _Two._

"How much damage?" Dean asked, breathing heavily. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

"Stitchesss." _Enunciate!_ " Your gonna… need all the stitches." Dean swore—_awesome_-but it was what he'd been expecting.

"I figured, Sammy. And I need you to do that for me, okay?" A wave of panic washed over Sam. He could barely walk and talk. _How could_—Dean cut off Sam's thought. "I'm afraid we don't have another option. We are a little stranded here." No other option. Sam wished he could get his brain to work right, because he was sure he could think of another, better plan. "Trust me."

"Thiss bad—"

"This is what we are doing Sam." Dean was using his forceful voice, the one he learned from their father. The ones that says no arguments. The one that says obey. He looked pale when he turned to face Sam.

"Okay." If Dean thought Sam could stitch him up like this, Sam believed him. He always believed Dean. And he could do stitches. He was a _champ_ at stitches. Sam pushed the fatigue down, wishing he could do the same with the fog in his brain.

_Stitches._ Sam dropped to his knees –-_dontthrowup_—and spread out the sleeping bag. "Come on." Dean sank—_collapsed?_- onto it as Sam lined the tools up next to him. Water. Needle. Dental floss. Zippo. _Missing something._

_Whiskey._ Dean told him to bring the whiskey. Sam spied the bottle a few yards away-it must have rolled when he dropped it- and stumbled after it, nearly tripping over his own big feet. He hoped Dean didn't notice. It didn't inspire confidence in Sam's motor skills.

Dean didn't. He was doing all he could to keep it together. He was concentrating on breathing, on keeping a lid on the pain, the dizziness. They hadn't even gotten to the easy part yet. And he needed to stay awake to make sure Sam stayed awake for this. He needed to stay awake so that after he could take Sam to get his cracked melon looked it.

Sam returned with the whiskey and sat down, grateful not to be standing anymore. _So tired._ Water. Needle. Dental floss. Zippo. Whiskey. _Okay._

Sam splashed some water on his hands, rinsing off the dirt he could see, then some whiskey for the dirt he couldn't._ Clean. Clean-ish._ He handed the bottle to Dean, who took a small slug and handed it back. Sam stared at the bottle, confused.

"Dean," _concentrate on the words_ "wedon't have anything to numb you. Drink more. Thiss going to hurt."

_No shit,_ Dean thought, crushing a hysterical laugh. But he had to stay conscious-someone had to stay in their right mind. "I'm fine, Sammy. Just do it."

Sam blinked. _Trust Dean._ He poured the water onto Dean's back, sluicing old blood away as new blood welled up. Dean was breathing heavily, chanting curses under his breath. Both of them knew it hadn't even begun to hurt in earnest yet.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered- _thought?_-as he emptied the whiskey over Dean's back. Dean tried not to scream. They both threw up.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam's stitches had never felt nice, especially when he was doing something so big, but usually Dean was a little drunk or at lot passed out when he got them. Usually it was over more quickly. Usually Sam had enough fine motor control to keep from brushing the wound accidentally. Who would have thought you could be nostalgic for previous instances of motel room stitches?

Sam had accidentally stabbed Dean with the needle a few unnecessary times, too, but from his vantage point of face-cradled-in-arms, Dean couldn't differentiate it from what Sam was intending to do. _Thank god._

This was not going well. This had been a terrible choice.

"Sam!" Twice already Sam had stopped too long and Dean had to float up from his pain and call his name to get him to start again. Sam jerked back awake and pulled the thread too hard. White hot flame passed through Dean. Tears he couldn't stop leaked through his eyelids, and joined the sweat and blood dampening the sleeping bag. Dean swallowed.

"Your doing good," Dean croaked. Sam knew Dean was lying, but it helped anyway.

"BestIcan." They both knew this was true, but it didn't make Sam feel any less terrible. He stopped again. His hands seemed very far away. _Focus. Stitches. Dean._ Sam finished the first set and tried to tie a knot, failed. _Again. _

"Halfway." Sam was never going to be finished. He was so tired. He just needed to rest his eyes. He'd be so much better at this if he could just shut his eyes for one minute.

"Sam!" Sam jerked. "Come on buddy. I can't do this alone." _Right. Stitches. Dean._ He threaded the needle, clumsily. Just one more set.

"Okay."

Dean braced, gritted his teeth so hard he wouldn't have been surprised if he ended up with just a mouth full of dust.

Sam's uneven rhythm made it hard to breathe through.

Sam couldn't see his brothers face, couldn't see the sweat dripping into his eyes or the unnatural pallor, but he could imagine it. He could, however, see the tension in his brothers body, how tight he was wound against the pain. _Finish this,_ he ordered himself. _Focus._

He forced his hands to go more quickly this time, pushing through his brains attempts at shutting down. He'd never wanted to sleep so badly.

He was still being so slow, and his stitches were so sloppy, the worst he'd ever done. _Finish._ He pushed the needle in again. _Down. Across. Up. Again._ He tried to time it to his brothers quick, shallow breaths.

_Eight more._

_Five._ His eyelids were so heavy. _Focus._ Sam bit his lip until he tasted blood._ Better._ More awake.

_One._ He got the knot on the first try this time.

Sam's hands were covered in blood. His stomachs turned again. _Not yet. Not done._ He rinsed them quickly with one of the bottles of water, then grabbed the antiseptic cream, and the bandages.

"Almost." As gently and as quickly as he could, Sam rubbed the cream over his brother's back.

It was agony for Dean. Usually he couldn't feel much by now. Usually the whiskey had kicked in or he had floated away on the pain. Dean couldn't breathe. Dean thought he might throw up again.

Sam put the final bandage on. "Finished." Sam slumped, spent. _Just two minutes._ He only needed to close his eyes for two minutes.

Dean counted to five, then ten, twenty, willing his body to calm down, for his breath to even out. He was dizzy, he hurt, but he wasn't going to bleed out anymore.

He'd planned to drive Sammy to the hospital at this point, get his head looked at, but Dean realized he'd been overly optimistic. _What the hell were they going to do?_Dean tried to quell his panic.

_Reevaluate._ Sammy wasn't using a lot of syllables, but he wasn't slurring quite so much anymore. And it had been a struggle, but he had stitched Dean back up. That had to be a good sign, right? You couldn't perform minor surgery next to a barn if you were bleeding into your brain, right?

_Damn it. _

Dean pulled himself into a sitting position, slowly-his new stitches pulling miserably- and reached for one of the bottles of water. Hydrate. He needed to hydrate. Hydrating will stop his head from spinning, and then he could drive. And sugar. Sugar would help. He wondered if he had a candy bar somewhere in the car.

He swished some water around in his mouth and spat it out before downing the rest of the bottle. He pulled his legs up and leaned his head against his knees, steadying himself.

_Think. Next steps. Basic needs._ Okay, if they weren't going to make it to the hospital as soon as he'd planned, there was more first aid to do.

"Sam." His's head bobbed, but he didn't open his eyes. Dean snapped and Sam's eyes flew open, startled. "Come here. Look at me." Sam's forehead knitted, but he leaned closer. His pupils were the same size. _Good._ "When is your birthday?" If Dean didn't get the answer he was looking for- well, he was counting on a rush of adrenaline then.

"May 2nd." _Also good. _

"How's the arm?"

Sam looked at his arm. It was only bleeding a little bit now. It wasn't too deep. "Alright."

"Take care of it for me, okay?" Again with the confused look, but Sam obeyed, grabbing the supplies on the ground, rinsing it out, flinching as he tipped the whiskey over it, then wrapping some of the leftover bandages around it. "And how is the head?"

Sam took stock. It hurt in two layers, his headache from this morning and something more local in the back of his head. _Where he must have hit it? Why couldn't he keep what had happened in his mind?_ He was so tired, but not as nauseous as he had been. "I've had worse."

Dean felt useless, worthless, but he decided to trust Sam because he didn't really have another option. _Sam was okay. Sam was going to be okay_.

Dean itched to move them to the car. He felt exposed and he longed to flip on the heater-he was cold- but he knew he was too shaky to make it on his own steam. And he couldn't figure out how he could lie down in the car without disturbing his stitches anyway.

Sam's eyes were closing. Dean snapped again.

"Five more minutes, okay? I need you for five more minutes."

Sam frowned, but agreed. "Okay."

"I need you to go back to the car and grab whatever food we have in there okay? And any water we have left. And the other sleeping bag." This one needed to be washed before it would be inhabitable again. "Got it?"

Sam nodded, but he looked unsure.

"Repeat that back to me, okay?"

"Water. Food. Bag." _Good enough._ Sam pushed himself back to his feet, moving like he was dragging a tractor trailer behind him.

Dean fumbled for his jacket, rummaging in his pockets for his gun, which he placed on the ground where he could reach it, and his phone. He set a timer for forty-five minutes, fighting to keep his vision from graying out. _God damn it. _ Forty-five minutes and he'd wake up Sam and check on him again. Forty-five minutes and he figured he'd trust himself enough to drive again.

Sam returned, and handed Dean a chocolate bar, a bruised apple that must have been under the seat for a week or two, and two bottles of water which Dean took gratefully.

Dean didn't have to tell him unzip the bag and spread it out, all Sam wanted was to be on top of that bag asleep. He didn't even care why they were sleeping in the dirt. Dean drank two thirds of the bottle of water and then methodically chewed the chocolate bar and then the mushy apple- the only thing worse than an apple was a mushy apple-willing the sugar back into his blood stream. Dean's hands were shaking, and he wondered vaguely if it was blood loss or shock or both.

Before lying down-and all he wanted to do was lie down and escape the vise in his head-Sam looked to make sure Dean's stitches were holding, that he wasn't bleeding through his bandages.

Dean caught him looking.

"I'm okay, Sammy. Go to sleep," he growled. D_ean growled, which meant Dean was fine, which had always, for as long as Sam could remember, meant they were going to be fine._ Comforted, Sam stretched out on half the sleeping bag and was immediately, finally asleep.

Dean finished his water quickly. His back and head were throbbing, and he was dreading the twisting he was going to have to do to lie back down on his stomach, but mostly he felt like a failure. Felt betrayed by his body. If he couldn't get Sam to the hospital, Dean wanted to stay awake, watch his brother, but he knew he'd be unconscious in a few minutes whether he wanted to be or not. Dean lay down next to his brother, glad for his body heat. He wrapped a hand around Sam's wrist to keep an eye on his pulse- a gesture that would be totally useless once Dean passed out, but made him feel better now.

_Sam was okay. Sam was going to be okay_.


End file.
